


Deficit

by orphan_account



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	1. Unfixable

He aggressively opens the toolbox, rummages and picks up the tools he thinks will be needed. The screw is placed into position with little care and then screwed tight with more force than necessary. The metal plate squeaks in protest, but he does not care. His hands are shaking.  
  
With a lot of self-discipline, he forces himself to concentrate at the task at hand, to focus on the broken device laying in front of him on the workbench. The wires are swiftly put back in, reconnected and fastened. Another screw is set in place and secured, and after a few furious hits with the hammer in the right angle, the plates are ready to be welded.  
  
The world seems to be a bit darker and less colorful when viewed through protection goggles. However, the bright flame of the welding torch is clearly visible, almost painful even to protected eyes, causing them to water.  
  
Then he halts, staring into the hot blue flame and remains frozen until the gas runs out and the flame dies.  
  
He can fix things. He is talented, gifted even. He is capable of fixing various things, no matter how broken, crushed and out of order they are.  
  
But his brother is not a thing.  
  
His hands are shaking.  
  
The toolbox describes an almost perfect parabolic arc before it hits the wall with a loud rattle.


	2. Distraction

With a hilarious jump-motion accompanied by a loud beep, the little enemy vanished from the screen. It was in some way funny. Another minor obstacle was wiped out of the hero's way as Super Mario continued to jump and run towards the goal.   
He paid little attention to the clock lately, thus was unaware of the exact time. If someone asks him how many times he already played that level, that game, he doesn't know the answer. Countless times.  
  
The world on the other side of the screen is so bright, so colorful. With playful ease, Mario dodges approaching danger, overcomes the most impossible obstacles, survives wicked pit traps and vanishes trough the door that brings him to the next stage.  
  
They have done similar things countless times, his brothers and him, jumping across buildings, knocking Foot ninjas and street punks off. He grimaces when Mario falls down from a cliff and one life is subtracted from the pile of extra lives. Now only one more spare life is left.  
  
There is no < CONTINUE ? > in real life.  
  
Because it is not a game.  
  
Suddenly he looses interest and puts the controller aside. Now Mario is just idly standing around while the time runs out. Then the figure on the screen dies without even having encountered an enemy nor moved.  
  
GAME OVER   
  
He gets up, legs stiff from long hours of sitting in the same position and stumbles towards his room.


	3. Chapter 3

It is an easy exercise; he has done it countless times before.   
Even and control your breathing, calm your thoughts, relax.   
There is so much to think about; to meditate about. One thought crosses his mind again and again. Was there anything he could have done differently, to avert what occurred? So much damage had been inflicted on his family. And again he twists his brain.   
  
What if?  
  
The bed sheet is only crumpled where his hands lay. The sheets are changed frequently, so otherwise they are always plain, always even. Smooth. By now, he memorized the texture of the fabric, knows where it is patched and where the material begins to thin due to the constant use.  
  
Not realizing he was gripping them so tight until now he forces himself with an intentional effort to let go. His fingers feel stiff. It must have been a while since he last moved them.  
  
Several minutes pass until finally, he feels calm enough and dares to opens his eyes again. They still sting and feel puffy.   
  
He can barely make out his legs below the blanket, securely tucked in. Only a few candles light his room. But it is not too dark. His eyes are accustomed to the dim light now. He knows his legs are there. But he cannot feel them.  
  
And he feels ashamed.


End file.
